I Knew That Name Sounded Familiar
by Tyburn
Summary: Cerise arrives home to find her mother slaughtered by a big bad werewolf, and decides that enough is enough.


Cerise raced home, her heart pounding, heels tearing up chunks of dirt as she ran. She darted through the thorn bushes that scratched and tore at her clothes and flesh, ignorant to the pain that flowed through her body. Mother was in danger and...

An unearthly howl rent the air, and Cerise stopped short, her breath escaping in short, ragged pants. "No," she gasped. But it was too late. She could see the small wooden shack that they had called home, and the giant furry behemoth that was lurching out of the door, covered in blood. There were many names for it; Black Shuck, werewolf, lycanthrope - the name didn't matter. It lumbered off into the forest, growling steadily, and Cerise choked back terrified tears as she watched the retreating form disappear into the undergrowth. Then, and only then, did she try to move, tentatively taking short steps forward until she was standing in the doorway herself. And immediately, she regretted it. The beast had not left much of her mother. Sobbing, she collapsed to her knees and screamed in agony and loss.

She awoke with a start several hours later, surprised to find she had passed out, and started looking round. The grisly scene was still there, so with trembling hands, she gathered up as much of her mother as she could find and buried it solemnly in the back yard. Her anguish giving way to anger, she closed and locked the door behind her as she left, she would not be returning here for a long time.

The walk into town was long and arduous, but when she arrived, she headed straight for the library. Her father had taught her to read many years ago, before he too was killed by a roaming werewolf. She selected several books very carefully, and spent hours poring over them, reading up on martial arts forms, lycanthrope mythology, the paranormal arts, and various forms of dark magic that were kept in chained-up tomes in a roped-off section. Drawing in the information, absorbing it like a sponge. When the library closed, she hid, and stayed in there overnight, reading by torchlight until her eyes ached and her fuzzy brain could no longer think straight. Clambering up the side of a bookshelf, she slept atop it for a few hours. Her dreams were riddled with claws, and fangs, and at one point she nearly fell off her precarious sleeping-point, only to awake and catch herself at the last moment.

For the next few days, she stayed in the library, reading during the day and sleeping on bookshelves at night. But book learning was one thing - actually putting it to practical use was another entirely. She left the town, and sought her fortunes in the big bad world.

A year passed. And in that year Cerise grew much more than her tiny frame would suggest. The silver she'd obtained as a reward for helping the Seven Thousand Dwarves escape the tyranny of the terrible mine owner Snow White. And the religious artefacts she'd stolen from the Sleeping Kingdom during a lull in handsome Princes. And with the silver, she went to Garth, the old blacksmith in the town, and got him to forge for her a solid silver battle-axe, sharp as a razor. It took him three weeks, but once finished, it was a work of art. The final thing before she left, she went into a clothing store, and bought for herself a brown travelling cloak, which she wrapped tightly around herself as she departed for the forest, the axe slung over her shoulder.

It was a hard slog through the forest, but by following the trails, she could track the beast as it made it's circuits of the forest, watching for the signs - trampled undergrowth, dead animals littered around, puddles of drool... the list was endless. But on the third day, she had found it, hunched over a deer carcass, muzzle buried deep in the unfortunate creature's ribcage. Cerise unslung her axe, and waited, grimacing at the grotesque crunching, slurping and snuffling noises that emanated from the creature as it fed. Remembering all the stuff she'd read in the martial arts books, plus what she'd picked up during her stint as a (sort of) mercenary, she crouched, the moonlight gleaming off the axe's shiny blade. Waiting for the right moment, her muscles tensed, and she slowly moved the axe round until the head was behind her.

Suddenly, the beast was moving, and Cerise sprang into the air with a terrible warcry. The blade sliced down with a hiss of moving air, and the werewolf dodged to one side. Cerise turned, and with a sweep of her leg, drove a high kick into the creature's face that connected with a crunch. As the werewolf staggered back, Cerise pressed home her advantage, and swung the axe hard, cleaving the great beast in two from nose to tail. Blood sprayed everywhere, and Cerise had to turn her back to avoid the explosion of gore and entrails. This was something not covered in the books, the fact that when you mortally wound an immortal creature with a silver weapon, it has a tendency to explode in a most messy fashion. As the crimson smoke cleared, Cerise stood straight. It was over, the beast that had slaughtered her mother so ruthlessly was dead, it's blood drying with astonishing rapidity on her cloak, staining it a deep, dark red.

A Red Riding Hood.

Such is the stuff of legend.


End file.
